Drown the Browns

Their mother had children and thinking she should
She attempted to love them, but my God who could?
Kill your children, Mrs. Brown
Do your bit for Tidy Town
Remove your whitetrash from the gutter
Melt your sons for soap and butter
And every time I take a bath, I’ll think of Mallachy and laugh
And I’ll recall each punch and boast, as I spread Martin on my toast
Drown the Browns
Their father has squatters rights in three prisons
Their mother when concious could not make decisions
Imbibers of cider and pre-teen joyoriders
Sharpening screwdrivers, as I made a glider
Which thy later smashed in woodwork class
They stol all the tools but they still didn’t pass
Drown the Browns